


In sickness and in....

by Havokftw



Series: If found, please return to Lee Jihoon [1]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 18:37:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15176840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Havokftw/pseuds/Havokftw
Summary: "I do take a multivitamin.” Seungcheol says, voice sounding like sandpaper. "But sometimes people just get sick anyway."Jihoon snorts. "No—you take those chewy, fruity, dinosaur shaped multivitamins. They’re hardly the right strength for a grown man."





	In sickness and in....

"You can't be sick," says Jihoon sensibly, yet without any semblance of logic.  "You've got that presentation at the end of the week.”

"And _yet_ ," Seungcheol groans into his pillow, hugging it close and wishing for death, "Here I am."  

His head pounds something awful, and the bed is by turns too hot and close and too draughty and sparsely covered.

He’d been hoping Jihoon would do something nice to him to comfort him: maybe stroke his fevered brow with his long cool supple fingers, or to bring him a cup of piping hot tea, or to perch on the edge of the mattress and kiss his forehead and murmur soothing sweet things.

But those are just feverish delusions because this is _Jihoon—his_ boyfriend who has a horror of contagion that borders on the pathological—and he will do none of those things.

"You wouldn’t be sick if you took a multivitamin—Like I do." says Jihoon, still sounding completely reasonable and yet making no sense whatsoever.

Seungcheol's head aches too much to lift it and look, but he knows without looking that Jihoon is probably clutching a tissue over his mouth and nose, keeping a careful perimeter, and possibly considering the merits of setting up a CDC quarantine zone in their bedroom.

"I _do_ take a multivitamin.” Seungcheol says, voice sounding like sandpaper. "But sometimes people just get sick anyway."

Jihoon snorts. "No—you take those chewy, fruity, dinosaur shaped multivitamins. They’re hardly the right strength for a grown man."

“But I like them,” Seungcheol rasps, and swallows with laboured effort, “They taste better too.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes. “They’re for _kids_. Ages 2-6—according to the bottle.”

Seungcheol withers him with a glance. Or at least he hopes he does. “Are you seriously going to lecture me when I’m sick, or are you going to help?”

"Well, what do you want me to do?"  Jihoon is audibly impatient now—obviously eager to leave Seungcheol's _chamber of death._

"Your compassion would be nice," says Seungcheol, wincing more at the croaking timbre of his own voice than the pain in his throat. "Better yet, the sweet release of death."

"Failing that," Jihoon answers, clipped and failing to rise to the bait.

"Some Ibuprofen," Seungcheol tries, and now manages to twist his head to see Jihoon.  "Maybe some soup?"

Jihoon hesitates, considering the suggestion with a frown.

"Don’t worry—I don’t expect you to spoon feed me or anything." Seungcheol sighs, dropping his head back against the pillow.

Jihoon seems to find this suggestion adequate, because the next time Seungcheol opens his eyes, Jihoon has disappeared and Seungcheol can faintly make out the sound of Jihoon banging around in the kitchen.

Seungcheol shivers and huddles under the covers. His brain feels two sizes too big for his skull, pressing up against unforgiving bone and letting him know it is not fucking happy. Every swallow feels like knives in his throat. He probably needs antibiotics, but not the ordinary kind, the good kind they reserve for things like super mutated Ebola and Malaria or something.

"I can’t believe you’re _actually_ wearing a face mask," Seungcheol says faintly when Jihoon reappears carrying a tray. “And surgical _gloves_. Jesus Jihoon, it's just a cold.”

"I know, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious. Just cause _you’re_ sick doesn’t mean I should get sick too." says Jihoon loftily, but he comes closer and settles the tray down on the bedside table.  

There's a lovely cup of honey and lemon tea wafting citrusy fumes, a neatly rolled up dampened facecloth, and a package of anaesthetic lozenges that Jihoon must have _actually_ popped outside for.

What a _martyr_.

"Thanks," says Seungcheol, struggling to get upright enough to drink the tea. It's hot going down, burning his throat and warming him up even further from the inside. He dabs his face with the cloth to wipe off the sticky sweaty sheen that's built up and pops a lozenge in his mouth. 

Only _then_ does he notice that instead of sitting on the edge of the bed like a doting boyfriend, Jihoon has chosen to sit on the chair at the far side of the room.

There is something hilarious about how Jihoon sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, watching Seungcheol sip tea. Almost like he’s side-eyeing him, assessing him—possibly waiting for an opportunity to euthanize him or something.

“You don’t have to sit all the way over there you know. I’m not—” _Contagious_ , Seungcheol starts to say, but a loud sneeze cuts him off.

Jihoon leans back in the chair, further away, like Seungcheol has just attempted to spray him with _acid_.

“Contagious?” Jihoon snaps, finally showing his exasperation, “Yes, _you are_ , Cheol. In fact—I’ve set up the air bed in the living room for just that purpose.”

“Are you actually going to kick me out of our conjugal bed, because I’m sick?” Seungcheol says, wounded.

Jihoon laughs, not cruelly but softly like he’s charmed, “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not _heartless_. The air bed is for me. Besides—you’ve already infected this bed with your germs, no sense in kicking you out to infect the rest of the apartment.”

“I knew it.” Seungcheol huffs, with enough feeling to set him off coughing. “I knew you were setting up a quarantine zone. You’re going to wait till I fall asleep—then you’re going to suffocate me with my own pillow.” he gasps out, once the fit subsides and he can breathe again.

Jihoon doesn't see fit to respond. He stands from his chair and rests his hands on his hips, "If you're done being dramatic, will that be all?"

“Yeah.” Seungcheol says with an indignant huff, hurt. “But—I’ll remember this Hoonie. When you get sick—I’ll remember _this.”_

Jihoon huffs out a little laugh. “I don’t get sick Cheol. I take _adult_ multivitamins.”

 

* * *

 

Jihoon hasn't been sick in so many years, he almost doesn't recognize the signs.

On Monday morning, he thinks that maybe the weekend’s excesses are still in his system, when that first, niggling ache begins just under his skin. But by midday he’s still feeling off; his reflexes are firing slower than usual, he has a low-level headache that he can't quite shake and the cold air is producing an uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

He ignores it of course, figuring it’s too little sleep or too much caffeine, and goes about his business.

Then, on Tuesday, he’s sitting on a cramped, stinking subway car when his throat throbs, so he coughs, then coughs _again_. Then proceeds to cough like he’s trying to remove all his own internal organs.

After he's finished punishing his lungs, he looks up to find the crowded subway car is considerably less crowded, specifically in _his_ radius.

During a presentation, he struggles to focus because he feels simultaneously too hot and too cold, his eyes burn, and the material of his clothes feel too close, a constant irritant. He ends up leaving early because it’s not getting better; his skin literally aches in the strangest way and he’s _exhausted_.

Usually he is a rabid advocate of ‘Personal space when sleeping’, but tonight when he hits the mattress, head spinning, he finds himself burrowing up into Seungcheol's armpit with his arm flung over Seungcheol's broad chest.

Seungcheol is wearing one of those shitty threadbare cotton t-shirts he’s had since college that Jihoon hates on principle—except at this exact moment because it makes an amazing pillow. It’s unbelievably soft and nice-smelling and heated through with Seungcheol’s ever-churning muscle-powered metabolism.

Jihoon doesn't even care that Seungcheol is probably giving him surprised eyebrows and smirky lips because everything hurts; Jihoon’s so tired, so achy, so drained, but for some reason it all fades into a tolerable sort of background misery if he can just keep his cheek tight against Seungcheol’s chest, drown himself in the soft  _thump-thump_  of Seungcheol’s heartbeat, the tide of his breath as he draws air to speak.

"Can I help you with something, Jihoon?” Seungcheol asks, voice deeper than usual with Jihoon’s ear flat to his ribs. “I can’t help but notice you’ve misplaced your sense of grumpy standoffishness tonight. You've been sneezing non-stop since you got home _and_ your bodies running a few degrees hotter than normal. Is it possible that you’re— _getting sick?"_

Jihoon's too drained to answer beyond clinging a little more resolutely.

He might, _maybe_ , make a vaguely sad noise as he digs in.

If Seungcheol is going to be an asshole about this, Jihoon thinks — if he's really determined to be a jerk (and Seungcheol can be amazingly stubborn, particularly when it comes to Karma) Jihoon will probably find the energy somewhere to roll over and anchor himself on his own pillow instead.

It'll be good enough, he supposes.

After all, Seungcheol doesn't want whatever Jihoon has, this achy-shivery-hurts to swallow-thing. No. Seungcheol has an important deadline at work and premium tickets to a football game at the weekend, so it’s no good getting Seungcheol sick too.

Besides, it's not like Jihoon has the moral high ground, here.

He remembers that when their roles were reversed, he was maintaining a safe distance; sleeping on the airbed, wearing a face mask and considering the merits of establishing a CDC quarantine zone in the living room.

So Seungcheol has every right to shove him off and leave.

It would only be fair.  

Jihoon pinches a bit of Seungcheol's cotton shirt in his fingers anyway, just in case he tries.

But one of Seungcheol’s very few redeeming qualities (other than his body, this t-shirt, his scent, his ass, his lips, his doe eyes, his voice, his — (Jihoon seems to be a bit feverish now) — one of Seungcheol’s two or three _dozen_ redeeming qualities is compassion.

Compassion, and possibly something of a soft spot for Jihoon.

So Seungcheol doesn't scrape Jihoon off him in a fit of completely defensible pragmatism; he doesn't laugh or boast or tease him further. Seungcheol instead cards his fingers through Jihoon's hair, drifts nails over Jihoon's aching head, and says, very softly, tenderly, "Aww, my poor sweet cherry tomato is sick.”

The only right reaction to being called a 'poor sweet' anything is, naturally, a kick in the balls, but Jihoon settles for another sad sigh.

It's honestly the best he can do at the moment.

“Do you want me to get you some ibuprofen? Some Honey n’ Lemon tea and toast? Or I can make you some chicken noodle soup, I know it’s your favourite.” Seungcheol says in a voice that is sweetness itself. 

Jihoon sighs.

He _is_ hungry, and Seungcheol does make a mean Chicken Noodle soup, but the thought of anything heavy is enough to turn his stomach. Tea and toast does sound good, but he’s sure if Seungcheol leaves now—he won’t be coming back.

“Later maybe.” Jihoon mumbles.

“Okay, you just let me know when.” Seungcheol replies, pressing kisses to the top of his head and tucking the blankets in around his shoulders.

This is coddling, there really is no other word for it. Jihoon is being coddled right now and he doesn't give a fuck. 

When he has more energy—he’s going to put a stop to this. _Honestly._ Just as soon as Seungcheol stops being warm and perfect and solid under his cheek, just as soon as Jihoon's body stops needing Seungcheol close enough to dull the awfulness.

“You should probably sleep on the couch. The air bed is still in the closet.” Jihoon sniffles sadly, unprepared to let Seungcheol go, but equally unprepared to die like some overwrought bohemian heroine fading away on her lover's strong chest.

Seungcheol chuckles. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No. I just—don’t want you getting sick too. I’m _contagious_.” Jihoon murmurs, feeling spectacularly sorry for himself.

"Shh," Seungcheol whispers, thumbing the too-hot skin behind Jihoon's ear, wrapping his free arm around Jihoon,  _tight-tight-perfect_. "I don’t care about that babe. You're worth catching a cold over."

Jihoon whimpers. Only because he’s tired. It's got nothing to do with the sudden well of liquid warmth just under his sternum, he decides.

“But when I get sick—I get a gross snotty nose." Jihoon sniffs, signalling the beginning of said snotty nose. "It will be disgusting.”

“Nonsense.” Seungcheol chuckles, brushing Jihoon’s hair back off his forehead, “You’ll have a precious snotty nose. It’s be all red and adorable—like Rudolph, and I’ll buy you the softest tissues to wipe it with.”

Jihoon whimpers again.

Everything hurts, nothing is right, except for Seungcheol; solid and warm against him.

Jihoon decides to sleep, cocooned safely in a loving fortress, and worry about his gross, snotty nose later.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick fluffy one shot, because I'm in a Jicheol soft mood this week. I posted a bunch of shorts on twitter about Cheol looking after sick Jihoon and vice versa and Cheol taking children's multivitamins (because you know he does) and someone DM'd me requesting a fluffy sickfic.  
> Hope you enjoy!


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